


Visual kind

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Dirty Talk, Humanstuck, Lowkey dub-con elements, M/M, Mirror Sex, Sibling Incest, Verbal Humiliation, self-deprecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29052537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Oops, I did it again. Enjoy.
Relationships: Gamzee Makara/Kurloz Makara
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Visual kind

You’re the visual sort, all colors wrapping up around your motherfucking oculars regularly sparking blessed mayhem. 

But you ain’t the vanity sort, you don’t think you can bear hearing your body out for its harsh realities when you know the wretchedness it harbors. Brother yours caught you smashing a reflection or two and had to patch you up by the knuckles more than once.

You sure ain’t your own favorite sight, a sorry spectacle or unruliness even your own skin can recognize as foul.

Kurloz disagrees.

Even if, surely, he must know this, must get knowing what as going through his head’s gonna piss you right off, the motherfucker. 

He’s looking at you expectantly and you ain’t believing you up and agreed to be pressed elongating onto the length of this all-new glass surface, its span long as you.

Thing’s a disgraceful line curling fixated on your walls but you can take the way he holds onto you like oblivion and the habitual lip-locking, ways you would have long held onto anything in your life prior to him.

You stare at him and you frown, as you sense the intent. Clever brother but never real clean in sweetness and forthcoming as a mamacita, he figures the setting for as it bothers you but doesn’t fucking care enough to compromising his night’s grand plans of you if he wants to have you here.

Might not be your own favorite sight, he signs at you both explanatory and inquisitive-like, but could be his jive if a killa is willing. You shrug assent and it’s most of what it takes as a yes.

  
  


You can’t register much before you feel the gloved hands pressing you down, your face turned against the cold expanse and you think ‘Motherfuck, _really?_ ’ with no small hint of betrayal as it hits that most you’re about to see’s your own mug tonight.

His hand’s soft edged grasp on you lets you know though, that this is body talk. The warmth as radiates over you from him and coils around the pulse he holds you down with also speaks at you the volumes of a good time. His amused eyes solidify at it. 

Ain’t the best way to be lustful next to something as raises you a sore spot but you ain’t one to ignore the special sort of excitement you always relish at feeling desired, at how having him get his touch on eclipses fears, happenstance so rare without motherfucking rhyme or reason behind it.

So this ain’t unwelcome, as you two get up to a lot. But familiarity of it don’t alleviate discomfort.

He gestures at you as to what the main fucking scheme of the night even is to being and you’re thinking halfway here, other half your bloodline conjures slowly south as he tries to string the points and figures. Arm he has that don’t press to your cheek raises up as he points to you, then the offending long-winding mirror and you stop him short there. 

“No need, Loz. Just..” He lets go of you, his motherfucking mistake.

You rise back up to take him by the hand and guide his interest down your bod until he grabs at you by his lonesome.

You don’t need a damn motherfucking walkthrough just to be touched tonight. Or so you think. Just skin to motherfucking skin is gonna be fine and is already getting you rising to the occasion.

  
  


You realize too fucking late that the position he’s settling you in is much similar as before when he guides you with frenzied kisses along your neck and melts you all careful pushing, has your hips turning for him. Your hands fall pressed again onto the glass as he starts grinding against your ass, clothes and all. 

He does that at times, trait of his, won’t cause you to trip over yourself directly but will make sabotage of your lack of attention till you play to his hands and it ain’t a thing he’s done to you only. You’d curse him if you weren’t so eager. 

Been not long since you felt him in you but the sensation’s a strong shuddering memory, always has you feeling carved up and twisted-wanting when you contemplate on it. His hands soothing all over you and pulling at your clothes make you not so set to admonish him for his motherfucking ills and trespassings.

Your pants go off first, discarded and not bothering on old wooden floors, through you’d been hoping it’d be the other way of the merry-go-round with your clothes, but you do know how he likes the darker contrasts to stay on you.

He finds his way to your flesh easy with fingers grabbing that know their path already and you too are trained to take this kinda touch just fine. 

Click and noise of the small bottle of lubricant opened prior gets you excited before he pours its sugar on you. Auditory little _hissss_ of the bottle combined with the wet touch he gives you and glass that holds you has you cooled on both sensation’s ends, candle burning in the winter. 

He alternates between grabbing at you and slicking you up and he does make sure you’re gonna go easy and relaxed. Once there, though, it’s a whole ‘nother matter entirely. He ain’t much the gentle sort and you ain’t either.

  
  


He gives a sigh and you feel bad you can’t see him clear this time as he adjusts to you apart from what you can feel but it does heighten the heady heart-thumping expectation, groan of pain as you let loose when he finally enters you. 

And then there’s steady movement and the tight stretch of you he must feel, the heat coil springing inside your body as he moves the two of you in tandem. It’s good, it catches you but it’s too fucking little. Way too motherfucking _little_ for how you're still itching.

“Do _it_ motherfucker. Been needing you.” You urge him on, half because you know he’s just setting you up and half because it feels different to not face him when all you'd get of seeing him means to face your self.

He might’ve been all up and waiting at you, appreciating by how he slams you again and again afterwards and now you feel it as though he’s out to hunt something inside you. The pace has you arching up to meet him under short time, your breath taking away the glass transparency’s show as you pile up sharp exhales of fog onto it and _thank fuck_ that it makes you not have to deal with your fucking face no more.

It don’t please him none not being able to see your eyes shut and your lips bitten anymore, either with the position and exhaust nor to get to witness when the little shocks take you from spine to brain.

You close your eyes shut anyway. 

  
  


You don’t figure out why and usually you ain’t need it but you still can’t face you like this. 

“ _Harder_.” You insist shut-eyed and refuse at first to open. Maybe you do crave for punishment every time you catch a glimpse of your reflection thereafter. Willing enough to let every drag of flesh be what pulls you whipped on Kurloz’s cock as he fills you up. Crave seeing yourself get blurred into a mess if it’s this good of a thing. 

He follows up fast to your demands, always. Hits your prostate right and deep and leaning on savage then for the first time and then for ten strong pounds after. You can feel the puffs of air he lets out and the shaking of his thighs when he meshes your frame with his in full.

Wonder what that’s feeling like. Wonder why looking into your own reflection’s eyes and looking into Kurloz’s ain’t that far from the same, specially all lust glazed and dark smoothed, familiar darknesses.

You feel the beginning of satiation, though. The more you drown the heat of him in you the more inviting the surface of the mirror becomes in its unfunny irony. 

  
  


Most as what your brother does has motives that you don’t always care at knowing, but you realize as your veins run hot blood through that your eyes are glued to your reflections now and it’s vile but it ain’t that bad anymore. 

The images as come to you for a slither of holy in their obscene midst now. Because when you normally look to your own self and want to hide what you see, it ain’t like this.

Now you stand, exposed and flaws out in the motherfucking open, splayed to both your gazes but it has you melting instead of recoiling and he sees it too. 

S’ different being looked at with approval like you’d gone and mattered even. 

He’ll explain later over dinner that it was… _-whatsit called?_ \- Some programming by association type of shit you don’t bother about. It’ll fall to place if you need the information.

Right now the tingling in your limbs is all kinds of delicious and you can’t be asked for a thing but screwing your arm around to hold onto him so you can push yourself back down.

He smooths hands over your chest then and you moan. Pulls your hair back, pulls you up on him different and standing so you can see yourself fully.

And if you whimper when you fit back down on him again, pain and stimulation mixing a pinch of confused emotion for seeing yourself _anew_. You motherfucking ain’t one to tell and neither’s he.

_“Sight you make._ ” He whispers to you loving and kisses your temples bit unhinged, mercilessly drives it in you, bit awkward as to how he’s holding you. 

_‘Oh, fuck_ ’ you think, because it’s one of the times he does talk at you, short as usual but all wrapped up in treasure.

You’re distracted though, since you’re about to be overfucked because he feels so much harder in flesh in you like this, flushed close.

Lamenting against it that you don’t use your safety terms don’t matter and you ain’t that sexed out yet, so you let it all keep washing over you like clouds to wash you clean.

The feeling as he hollows you, raw and big under your skin as has you flowing to a space untainted when he bucks up and in. 

_“Got a motherfucker all weak in the knees.”_ He sure don’t mean it, you think, till you feel how keyed up he still is, how he pulses in you and how that shit almost, him looking at you as lost in stars, motherfucking almost sends you over.

Miracles it is as he lets you catch breaths. You protest.

“I ain’t no better than any other fucker there-- _shit, ahhh, fuck!_!”

He sets you back down with your ass up as quickly as you came held up and he smacks you, hard print along your ass as has you gasping.

_“You ain’t?”_ He muses dangerously. Breathes out a _“Huh..?”_ Drops the honeyed edge to his eyes and looks disappointed at you. Your heart skips a pained beat because, the fuck’d you do?

Then he drags nails over your shoulders and pulls you down hard in a rut again, straight impales you on his cock and you cry out. You realize then you do got him in a spell, too. And yet he has the audacity to act all devious in harsh voices at you.

_“Just a bitch to spill in? Lamb to fuck and slaughter?”_ he starts at you, thrust by whisper.

“H-hold up now..” You plead half-assed. He don’t. 

Just keeps whispering breathless unjustness in your ear as he owns you. You curse him out in all manner of variations of _“Fuck!”_ that he surely provides for but you ain’t opting out. 

Unlucky of your ass to forget Kurloz is both the visual and the verbose kind.

_“Eager for the using. Stuffed as a ...crucified, unwilling, saint. That all you are?.”_ He drives his points like he drives deep in you, leaves marks on your ass as you struggle to keep footing with the damn mirror. 

Pulling you back on him, he makes show like you ain’t really there now and you don’t fail to notice on how he does get off on this.

“Hold the Motherfuck.. _nn_!” You can’t say shit but you realize the picture he’s painting at you and know it from his tone regardless.

He ain’t mad in earnest and that eases your heart. He up and wants you to find the savoriness of your own being, to play-sing your own fucking symphonies and personal ode sometimes.

  
  


You come harder than you expect then, clasping in a state all sensitive and miraculous between being screwed hard enough and gifted realization. He rides that wave out through you for a bit more before following suit.

Distant playing music outside your cheap rental apartment travels through your ears and it’s an imperfect end. You moan out a satisfied type of sweet surrender, motherfucking spent and felt out and it probably sounded to him stronger than to your ears. He wraps arms around you stable and smooths your sides into calm again.

You _cling_. Like you ain’t changed fundamentally from someone too scared to not cling. Maybe you ain’t. 

Your ass took a beating so it’ll be a while till you’re fine again. But you feel fine enough, fine as can be.

_“You’re something to me, Gam.”_ He tells you after he lets you regain composure, instructs his own posture upwards again and leans to kiss softly at the corners of your lips. 

Puts a hand on your shoulder where he bruised you from grabs, all uncertain and he don’t gotta worry none, really. Shit was bitchtits. 

You give him a toothy grin. “Thanks, bro.”

He reflects it in clockwork mirror.

**Author's Note:**

> Oops, I did it again. Enjoy.


End file.
